Fill Your Boots

The raiding force assembled. Can't believe I had to do this a second night in a row. All of those who volunteered were Mandalorian, doubtless seeking an opportunity to win honor and practice their ancient way. These troopers set aside their Imperial issued rifles in favor of various models of WESTAR blaster pistols and melee weapons fashioned through improvisation, more adept for the close quarters of a trench. Baize was also to participate in the raid, though if it was of his own volition or the insistence of his master remained uncertain. Not even trudging through the waste, did Dangir want to be without a batman. To fortify our resolve or reward those so eager to gamble their lives in this undertaking, Maj. Brimmo arranged for a ration of wine to be distributed among the participants. No expense was indeed spared on the watered-down drink. Still, I put down my share, as did Haurn. I spotted Baize about to sip and impulsively knocked the cup from his grasp, spilling the contents and leaving him without a drop, his tunic saturated. The Mandalorians within sight laughed at the spectacle, though I thought little of it.

I was seated on a firing step, tightening the puttees on my shins. For his sappers, Andrin managed to secure us each a pair of ankle shoes, which were more comfortable and nimbler than the standard issue jackboots. The puttees complemented the ankle shoes, wrapped around the lower portion of the legs from the ankle up to the knee. They did not offer the ballistic protection of the bulky greaves, which never fit well and would easily slide off mid-sprint, but it was an advantageous exchange given the agility gained. As I went about fitting the puttees, a hand grasped my shoulder, pulled me to my feet, forcefully. Sgt. Flelt, Dangir's chief flunky, held me in place for the lieutenant, who wished not to dirty his own hands. Dangir scowled, stared directly into my eyes in his show of intimidation.

"I don't want any of your antics tonight!" hissed Dangir.

"Let me stay here and I can guarantee there won't be any," I answered.

Flelt, breath stunk of drink, slammed my back into the wall of the trench at a nod from Dangir. I gave the lieutenant a crooked smile, as I am no stranger to playing the object of his wrath. The raiding party should express more concern for his leadership capability than my behavior –at least I knew where I was going. So, I promised to conduct myself accordingly and offer no trouble. The point made clear, Flelt released his grasp and the two moved off.

Andrin was ahead in the trench, nodded when I made eye contact, as he witnessed the spectacle perpetrated. It was clear he wished to speak, and I moved closer.

"You really kicked up a gutkurr nest," Andrin spoke. "Telling off the Brigadier's attaché the way you did."

"Is that a fact," I apathetically replied.

The back of his hand smacked my face, as Andrin's eyes filled with a succinct rage.

"Consider that punishment for your effrontery," Andrin huffed, then relented his frustration. "We had to do something. The attaché wanted you taken to a secluded traverse and shot. Luckily, Brimmo realizes your value, as do I. You can't imagine the hell I caught, just being your superior."

From the weatherproof trench coat, he wore over his uniform, Andrin withdrew a flask and took a lengthy pull from the vessel. He passed it to me, and I indulged in a drink of the truly harsh liquor contained within.

"It's not our Galaxy," Andrin candidly admitted. "We can wear their rank insignia, their medals, and honors, but we'll never be one of them. No matter how well we can play the part. It's their cadre and we're not in it."

The candor on Andrin's part was surprising. It was the only time I would see the man lift his stoic façade and confess his true sentiments. He would forever be at a disadvantage –the enlisted man commissioned an officer from the ranks. His peers would never fully accept him into their coterie. In their eyes, class was established, and it was best for all if the boundaries were maintained. I had to wonder, was this the vestiges of the decadent Republic and its holdouts refusing to allow societal progression, or was the Empire, the New Order I so hopefully clung to and steadfastly proclaimed, allowing itself to fall victim to the corruption it swore to combat?

"It's Dangir's show tonight," Andrin reverted to his purposeful comportment. "He wants to win the glory, let him. No heroics, you've won enough commendations. I need you and Haurn back in one piece."

"Yes sir," I uttered, acknowledging the lieutenant's dispassionate response.

With the darkness sufficient, we scurried up the ladders and over the parapet. The first few hundred meters, where we could walk upright, were easy to cover. The Mandalorians maintained their discipline and the force's cohesion held. When we reached the point, where we would be easily spotted by the MLA observers and had to crawl the remaining distance, I realized the infeasibility of committing so many troopers to a raid. Ideally, we should have split into groups or departed with a smaller complement. Perhaps the reason Haurn and I were chosen as guides was to each direct a section, though no discussion of this intention was had –Dangir held no consultation with either of us concerning the operation. Fifty is an unwieldy number to lead through darkness, over the broken no man's land. Troopers soon became separated from the group. The discipline exhibited by the Mandalorians who volunteered was exemplary, as none expressed unease or demonstrated panic. They realized they were capable of silently returning to our lines without drawing attention to their dislocated situation. Maybe the losses and turnarounds were factored in by our commanders, which is why so many were sent –send enough and at least some will make it through.

Quietly, we continued our advance. I checked over my shoulder, could barely make out the figures in the darkness, as they closely followed my lead. Haurn kept by my side. Andrin also spoke with Haurn prior, advised her, as he did me, to avoid significant contact with the enemy. The role assigned was to guide the party in, nothing was elaborated on the extent of our participation, so we interpreted it as best we could. Haurn and I were in agreement to provide Dangir a wide berth, the greater the share of glory for him to grasp. Maybe we would get lucky and Dangir would catch a blaster bolt to the gut –forever rid us of this abominable officer. Better still, he could win himself a promotion to headquarters staff.

Illumination flares significantly hampered forward movement, as we had to halt for each. After the abduction the night prior, the MLA were on high alert and observant should we Imperials try a similar stunt. Well, here we are tonight. The force halted when we reached the razor wire barrier. I brought us to a location where, once through, we'd skirt the side of the large shell chasm. Wire cutters were generously distributed beforehand and those equipped went to work slicing through the obstacle. Forethought, for once, played a factor in planning and numerous pathways were carved. Orders were to hold our position once the cutting was performed and await further instruction. While I lay in the mud, against a berm with the wire before me, I felt a hand slap my shoulder. It was Baize, with Dangir crawling up behind. The lieutenant crouched next to my spot and pointed in the direction of the enemy. Without words, he asked me to indicate their positions. I held up my hand, outlined the enemy's trenches with my finger. The MLA launched one of their illumination flares, it revealed their works in entirety. Satisfied, Dangir grinned and rolled to his side, took a flare pistol from his belt.

His red flare shot skyward, a crimson herald against the blackened night. It was clear enough, in terms of visibility, that our side could see the signal. Shouts arose from the MLA and their works, as they scrambled to receive an attack. The sudden appearance of the flare, so close to their lines, was cause for great excitement. Though, once the spark was airborne, our artillerists began their part. Shells cascaded upon the enemy trenches, AT-DTs amassed earlier and pre-ranged concentrated their fire. We threw our heads down as the ground shook. This was a ferocious barrage, focused on the section of enemy works we were to assault. The blasts deafened the screams of the MLA volunteers caught on the receiving end. Hill 211 was aflame, as bomb after bomb ripped apart its features, flayed the ground. It was a comparatively abrupt bombardment, only lasting ten minutes, but nonetheless violent. Once the guns ceased, Dangir ordered the advance.

Fires burned across the hill, the listening posts were churned to nothing, the works grounded into oblivion. We dashed forward, all three dozen of us who had not found themselves lost. The MLA volunteers, in a daze from the intense barrage, emerged from the holes and shelters. They wandered about, bewildered, and disoriented. The bombardment had their attention, no expectation of our swift arrival.

"HAILI CETARE!" a voice bellowed in Mando'a.

I never quite understood the meaning behind the translation, but it was immediately repeated by every single Mandalorian within the raiding force, Haurn included. I thought our separate plan was to hold back, let the others do the work, but she was up with them and charged forward, repeated the battle cry. More shouts, shrieks, blasters fired sporadically with steady increase. In an instant, we were upon the survivors. The Mandalorians swarmed over the works. The purpose was to capture prisoners for interrogation, but the blood was up, no quarter extended to our foe. The enemy was hacked apart, bludgeoned, stabbed, and shot down. I leapt into their shallow first-line trench. Haurn, to much concern, disappeared from my sight, swept up in the great lust. A Rodian knelt before me, hands pressed to his face, gangly fingers permeated by blood. No opportunity to assess his condition, I raised my entrenching tool and cracked open his skull with the spade. Ahead, a staircase descended underground to one of their dugouts. I tore a thermal detonator from my webbing and tossed the explosive through the opening. The subsequent blast killed all who sheltered inside.

The MLA volunteers were overwhelmed, tried to surrender, begged for their lives, but the Mandalorians would have none of it. This was no melee, no brawl, it was an outright slaughter. Haurn was soon located, as she repeatedly stabbed a Twi'lek with her vibroblade –beamed with satisfaction for performing the deed. Dangir shouted commands to take prisoners and establish order, but he was hopelessly drowned by the dissonance of the carnage. Some Mandalorians, transfixed by the moment, took off toward the second line of MLA trenches in a forlorn effort to carry the attack. These overzealous fanatics did not return. I had a close call with a Wookiee, as it bounded around a traverse. One corner we had not yet tossed a grenade. The creature bludgeoned a trooper to death with a club. Its sudden emergence caught us by surprise, as we assumed the immediate opposition was eradicated. I drew the WESTAR from my belt, and it required four bolts to bring the Wookiee down.

The intense fighting had subsided and Dangir was, at last, able to reign in the party. I noticed, while the lieutenant was eager to win himself a medal, he spent much of the raid positioned behind a thoroughly terrified Baize, so as not to be exposed to shrapnel nor blaster bolt. The tally was made, four troopers were dead, and we nabbed two prisoners –a human in a state of shock and a severely wounded Duro, who succumbed when we tried to move him. Dangir, about to raise his voice to signal the withdrawal, was interrupted by an instant burst. Mortar rounds fell about us in a vengeful fury, as the MLA grasped the nature of the situation. The enemy did not hesitate to bomb their own lines, such was the desperation employed to repel our incursion. What orderly withdrawal was planned quickly descended into bedlam. Troopers either braced themselves to weather the storm of ordinance or sprinted into the darkness toward the concealment of no man's land.

I grabbed Haurn by her webbing and dragged her to follow –the bombing more intense upon our position. We crept along the remains of the enemy trench, clung to the sides for what small bit of protection it afforded. From my periphery, I thought I made out Dangir, as he slipped into the night as fast as his legs could carry him, but I could not be sure. What was certain, was the wrenching scream emanating just to our front. The portion of trench was leveled from the MLA mortars. A trooper lay in the crater, both of his legs sheared off just above the knees. When I moved closer, I recognized Baize, in great agony, tears streaming down his face. The mortars abated for the moment, allowed a chance to slip away. Haurn slapped me on the shoulder, motioned for me to follow, to make our escape.

For some reason I paused. I looked at Baize, helpless, pathetic. I hated this man more than is possible to explain, enjoyed tormenting him to no end. Everything going through my head told me to leave him, let him suffer his fate out here –much like his Republic left Euruta to suffer. Despite my shrinking window to flee, my contempt for Baize, something made me go against my judgement. I leaned down, grabbed my nemesis under his arm and hoisted him over my back. He screamed from the pain throughout the process, to which I commanded him to be quiet. Unsteady from the rough ground and the added weight, I scrambled out of the crater.

Hurriedly, I ran as fast as I could, nearly fell several times and risked toppling the wounded trooper in my care. The mortars shifted their fire, joined by the emplaced repeating blasters within the bunkers. Shells and blaster bolts raked the desolate landscape, churned the ground upon each impact. Baize screamed throughout our flight, though his cries were drowned under the howl of the bombs. I weaved between shell hole and cascading rounds for one hundred meters, lost my footing and dropped the wounded Baize to the ground under a hideous shriek. Quickly, I regained my footing and hoisted the object of so much of my anger these many, many months. Onward, I pressed, around the chasm, through the cut sections of wire. We were separated from the rest of the raiding force, I had long lost sight of Haurn and assumed the best course was to make our way back to Imperial lines.

A red flare fired upward from somewhere in the wastes, another signal to the artillerists to lay a salvo on the Mimbo lines to cover our retreat. Whether all of ours had evacuated the enemy's trench was impossible to discern. The AT-DTs responded with a heavy curtain of munitions, blanketed the works of the MLA. It was another savage bombardment, but more prolonged than our introduction only a short time prior. The plasma shells, fired from a hundred massed guns, veiled in their deadly shade, thwarted any prospect of chase by our foe and sent the enemy for shelter. The ground shook so violently from the ferocious concussions of exploding bombs, the vibrations threatened to offset my balance once again.

Further ahead, I pressed, to the point where Baize's screams ceased, and his body went limp. In the mad dash to escape, I had no opportunity to render aid and tend to the wounds. Between the light flicker from each bomb exploding and the idiot firing off illumination flares, like they were trying to signal a Star Destroyer in orbit, I spotted an impact crater about a meter deep and climbed inside for the protection afforded. Able to rest and reassess, I gently laid Baize against the crater's wall. I confess my medical expertise is limited, though we were always told bacta cures all, right?

"Come on you son of a bitch," I said to him, smacked his cheek several times to keep him lucid. "Stay with me."

From my medical pouch, I injected Baize with a syringe of the medicinal liquid. His torn trousers were saturated, as he had lost a great deal of blood. If the bacta shot could hold him over for the time being, I could get him to the medics, and he would have a better chance. The crawling, the raid, the carrying, I was exhausted and needed a moment to recuperate my energy.

"Paulus," I heard my name whispered.

Turning my head, I saw Haurn crawl over the crater's edge and tumble inside. She was covered in mud, shivered uncontrollably in her soaked uniform, but was otherwise unscathed. We took a moment to embrace, and I ran my hands over her arms rapidly in a bid to generate warmth. Another illumination flare burst. In its light, Haurn noticed Baize, who moaned and tilted his head to the side. She looked at me, her expression silently asked, why? I still do not have an answer –why I risked my life in such a manner to save his, why I went through such effort.

"He'll bleed to death if we don't seal those limbs," Haurn spoke, reached out her hand. "Give me your pistol."

I drew the WESTAR from its holster and handed it over as instructed. Haurn took the weapon, opened the gas cartridge, and bled the tibanna until there was hardly any left. Then, she dialed the blaster's charge to its lowest energy setting.

"Old Mandalorian trick," she said. "Hold him down and cover his mouth. This is going to hurt. Really hurt."

In all appearances, Haurn seemed poised to render a mercy killing, but placed the barrel of the pistol just above one of the mangled stumps of exposed muscle and bone. I wrapped a strong arm around Baize, placed a hand to cover his mouth for the eventual scream. The trigger pulled and a low energy beam spit forth, cauterized the wound, and staunched the bleeding. The pain was excruciating for Baize, who thrashed about wildly, jolted to full consciousness. He sunk his teeth into my palm, and I recoiled from the injury.

"Kriffing bastard!" I exclaimed.

"Keep him still!" Haurn commanded, as she readied to repeat the process for the second leg.

Shaking the blood from my hand, I jammed it back to his mouth, but in a manner that he would not be able to bite it again. Haurn fired another shot, as I wrestled Baize under control. This was a crude method to bandage open wounds, stop the flow of blood, but we were desperate. Once we made it back to the lines, it could take hours to evacuate Baize to a dressing station, owing to the poor conditions of our trenches restricting expedient movement. Without such a drastic measure, it is doubtful he would survive. We waited for some time in the crater. The artillery, ours and Mimbo, adjusted their range. No longer were they focused on covering or repelling the infiltrators, rather, they exchanged in mutual counter-battery fire –contested on who could knock off the most guns. The bombardment redirected, it was safe for us to regain our path and make for our lines.

Baize was hardly conscious when we deposited him with the stretcher bearers. A medic stuck him with another dosing of bacta, scowled upon inspecting our crude field administered dressing. Participants from the raid trickled in over the next few hours. We learned Dangir was one of the first to return and was already delivering a report to the attaché and Brimmo. The raid cost us eighteen killed for one prisoner, while nine troopers were still unaccounted for. Andrin appeared before us, took us aside. Haurn and I just wanted to retire to our bunks and sleep. Our lieutenant informed us the sappers were exempted from further responsibilities of the day, to ensure we were well rested for the offensive taking place tomorrow. Too tired to saunter over to our repurposed mortar pit, we fell asleep right there on the firing step, Haurn on my shoulder and my head against a pile of sandbags.

"It seems the hour fast approaches," Andrin started his speech before the sappers.

We were arrayed along a section of cover trench, allowed to sprawl out on crates and steps to be comfortable while our officer spoke. No formality was observed, as our lieutenant wished to speak with us without the need for patronizing ceremony. The evening hours were in bloom and would soon give way to darkness. There were no rains to drench us for this, what would be for many, the final night. The mood was hushed, personalities and hijinks deferred in favor of the attentive ear –thoughts contemplated the enormity of the dawn's undertaking.

"Tomorrow will not be an easy day for us," he affirmed, words slow, but deliberately spoken. "You will be asked to do more than what is expected, of any trooper to ever serve this Army. Why we are here, our opinions of the war, our generals, the Empire, they aren't going to matter when we go over that trench in the morning. The Mimbos won't care if you are the Empire's greatest detractor or its most ardent apologist, they will kill you all the same, for they desire not to be bored by your convictions. At best, you'll be rewarded with a bit of metal pinned to your chest, or a strip of cloth sewn into your sleeve. At worst…well."

Andrin paused for a moment, turned to cough, and put a hand to his face. The observer with a sharp eye could discern our lieutenant suppressed a tear and the accompanied emotion. It was not a sadness he expressed for his plight, but for ours. If he wept before us, we would not think any less of him. Our lieutenant truly cared for his sappers, as a father would for his children. Though, he was powerless to stop us when we referred to him as Papa Andrin. With his composure regained, his tough demeanor projected, Andrin continued,

"I won't rouse you with a patriotic speech, I am too old and honest for such impassioned declamations. Nor will I downplay the fact we will lose friends tomorrow. When we're out there, your comrades are the only ones that will matter, they will be the only ones by your side. You count on each other to get through this business. Everyone knows their part and what we're doing, so I won't waste my breath with further reminders. Good luck to each of you."

My squad took up in the mortar pit Haurn and I shared. We settled in after Andrin dismissed the assembly and advised us to catch what sleep we could. The sappers from the 669th had the unenviable task of creeping out into no man's land tonight to cut passages through the wire in our sector. With a night of relief, the thought was to open the last bottles of purloined alcohol, but we did not feel the urge to inebriate ourselves, save for Remov, who was downing the supply as if he were parched. Dashnik attempted to organize a game of sabacc, though it was vetoed through collective melancholy. Remov sat quietly and contemplated the holo-image of his family. Typically, we would discourage this behavior on his part, but what was the point now? Govnic stormed in with a datacard addressed to him from the latest mail call and scrambled for the communal datapad to read the contents. Tundy was the only one who managed any rest. We never pressed the matter further about that night, where he failed to cut the wire, though we were less than amicable towards him in the time since. Understanding our displeasure, Tundy has exclusively stuck to Dashnik, evidently fearing a beating. Fine, let him be Dash's ward, I am quite exhausted with this individual. Haurn busied herself changing the bandage on my arm where I caught the shell splinter. The wound was not infected, healing quite nicely. The dressing was not due to be changed for some time, yet she insisted on tending to it. For my part, a lit cigarra slowly burned, caught between two fingers of my right hand. Though I have gradually become a heavy smoker, there were lengthy periods between drags on this tabac stick, so much was on my mind.

"BASTARDS!" Govnic erupted, hurled our only working datapad against the wall. "They can't do this to me!"

The outburst, we all knew the cause, was expected. Govnic was close approaching the end of his enlistment period. Anxiously, he awaited the transfer orders that would ship him to a demilitarization unit to serve his final days in the Army –turn him into the very Demil many greatly dreaded. Those orders were to arrive any day and hopefully whisk him away before the offensive commenced. But Army organization is forever an enigma, more vexing and deceiving than the Mimbos. Some clerk, behind a small desk in a cramped room with hundreds of counterparts, running a routine file check, made the correlation between Govnic's length of service, his current deployment, and his essential role as a sapper. The datacard contained a letter from the personnel unit informing Govnic his enlistment was involuntarily extended by twelve weeks, citing critical operational needs. Therefore, he would not be transferring to the Demils, he'd be joining in the fun.

"It's not right!" Govnic bemoaned, emotion crept into his speech. "I've done me time, served like a good troop. Wounded, decorated, the works. Now, when I'm supposed to ship off, they go an' pull this shite!"

"Shut it, Gov!" Dashnik grumbled. "You didn't honestly think they'd pull you off the line at the zero hour?"

"I ought to have a right good talk with the lieutenant about this."

"And what's Papa Andrin going to say that Dash hasn't?" Remov interjected, in a rare showing of confrontation. "Another opportunity to plunge yourself into wanton slaughter, I hardly believe you'd shirk your chance!"

Nearly exclusively the dejected, sullen individual, Remov, when inebriated, transformed into an animated, and in this instance confrontational, individual. Govnic gritted his teeth, clenched his fists in a brutish fashion, prepared to answer insult with violence. Remov offered a manic smirk, goaded the cur into a challenge. Both were on their feet, hurled insults and blows that failed to make contact, while a burdened Dashnik struggled to interpose between them and hold the combatants apart. Dash looked to me, with a plea for assistance, yet I felt no inclination to impede their contest. Casually, I took another drag from my cigarra and immersed myself in the view. Realizing it was a truly gainless exercise, Dashnik stepped back and allowed the pair to resolve the matter. Remov barely lasted a moment further when he was laid out from one of Govnic's heavy hooks. Govnic collapsed in a sobbing mess, overcome by the reversal of fortune –there would be no last-minute transfer to exempt him from his fate. He seized one of the alcoholic vessels and generously consumed the drink. Never did find the reason behind Remov's outburst, the liquor had something to do with it of course. Though, I suspect Remov was again pained by the loss of his wife and daughter and sought the simplest method to achieve a night's sleep, for he was unconscious until morning.

Govnic wept so loudly, he may have been heard by the Mimbos, his face planted in his knees, as tears streamed down his face. His lamentations were mostly incoherent, drowned in the howls and wails. Dashnik, one could easily tell, was haggard and exasperated by the sappers under his charge –for he was squad leader. He said not a word more and covered his head with a blanket to muffle Govnic's noise, while he bedded down. Haurn was on her third attempt to re-bandage my arm and grunted from the frustration that the dressing was not to her liking. She went to remove it to make yet another effort when I put a hand to hers. My gaze reflected that it was alright, she had done her job and no longer needed to trouble. Taking the cigarra I handed her, Haurn settled down next to me and began to smoke. We sat quietly side by side, backs pressed against the wall of the mortar pit. At our feet, the sprawled out Remov lay. Govnic continued to sob, occasionally begged for his mother to hold her baby boy once more.

"SHUT UP!" Haurn screamed, as she abruptly stood.

The noise became more than Haurn could tolerate, and she snapped. She began to violently kick Govnic in a forceful effort to compel silence. For his part, Govnic did not retaliate with a feral outburst –he simply endured the attack.

"ASSHOLE!" shouted Haurn, with a hard boot to Govnic's side.

I wrenched Haurn away, concerned she would incite the cur. Govnic never reacted to the assault, immersed in his grief. Haurn teemed with rage, breath heavy and eyes alight. Frustrated, she shoved her hands into her pockets and walked into the trench. Ahead, she strode, and I tried my best to maintain pace, assumed it was best if I went after her, worried she might provoke an altercation. I pushed by lingering squads, managed not to trip over the uneven duckboards and discarded crates left strewn about. Beyond the groaning troopers, enduring their own apprehension at the dawn, Haurn led me to a disused support trench where we were the only individuals present. It was a bitterly cold night, even though the rains conceded. The winds swept along the wastes, down into our trenches and pierced our worn uniforms through biting gusts. So cold, our damp raincloaks froze and stiffened, had to be bent and cracked to restore flexibility. It was one of the uncommon occasions where the clouds retreated enough you could see the stars, and they offered a captivating sight. The stars, staring up at them, was the only fond memory I hold of Euruta. When I was young, long would I affix my gaze to the night sky and dream of being among them, to be anywhere but my homeworld. If only I could have known, Mimban would be the price I pay to achieve those dreams.

Neither one of us said a word, as we silently, tilted our heads upward and stared at the thousands of shining lights that dotted the sky. Haurn struggled to remove another cigarra from its pack, her hands shook so badly. I took it from her, helped her light it, could tell she was troubled. An illumination flare burst, in its light I could see Haurn more clearly, the tears that ran down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, tried to hide the fact from notice. "I shouldn't be like this, not now. I thought I'd be used to it, the fear, the dread that tomorrow could be our last, that we are squandering the last hours of our lives listening to Govnic sob."

I went to place a comforting hand to Haurn, but she shrugged me off.

"All we've been through," Haurn started, despondent. "The last time I truly felt this scared, was that night."

She paused for a moment, tried her best to suppress the tears, the pain.

"I was thirteen the night they came," Haurn spoke, solemnly, recalling the terrible memory. "When the Imperial collaborators, Saxon's Commandos, showed up at our house, ambushed my father and dragged him away. I was the oldest, my brother still a child. It was expected of me, to take the blaster we'd hidden under the boards in the cupboard, use it if I had to. But I didn't. I was so scared. Instead, I just hid in that cupboard. I did nothing to stop them. A week later, my father was hanged, no evidence, no trial. My mother blames me for father's death, disowned me because of it, forcibly estranged me from my brother. Authorities wouldn't even let us take his body, allow him a proper funeral."

"Sonya, I…I'm sorry," I scrambled for words, overwhelmed by her confession.

Haurn's cigarra burned slowly, held fast between her lips. Her gaze was directed upward, stared into the darkened night.

"You were just a kid," I assured Haurn, to console her grief. "What could you be expected to do?"

"I was expected to pick up the blaster and kill them," Haurn choked through the tears she desperately tried to hold back. "Instead, I chose to be a coward. I hid while my father was taken from me."

"You can't blame yourself," I offered. "In the situation, I would've done the same thing."

"No, you wouldn't," Haurn answered, shifted to look at me. "You would've picked up that blaster and run right into the fight. They would need a whole battalion to hold you back. It's in your nature, to charge ahead into adversity."

"That's not me," I insisted. "I'm not brave. I've been scared, been a coward."

"You act without fear in the face of the enemy," Haurn admonished, unwilling to hear my self-deprecating remarks. "You're devoted to duty, you don't shirk hardship, you put your comrades above yourself. And you're a believer, you still have the capacity for faith, hope, when all else seems lost. You have all the qualities of a Mandalorian."

"I'm no Mandalorian," I tried to explain.

"You'd make a great one," Haurn contended. "When that shrapnel almost tore off my leg, you carried me for over a kilometer back to the outpost. And Baize, you hate that epabaar, but you risked your life to save his. You're something special, Paulus Maider."

She looked up at me, touched her soft palms to my cheeks and drew me in for a kiss. We held there, as time ceased to function around us. I was close enough, aided by another fool launching an illumination flare, to see the tears, Haurn's enchanting eyes reddened.

"When you put me on that AT-Hauler, I wanted you to climb aboard," confessed Haurn. "I hoped that kiss would be all the convincing you needed. When it took off, I kept watching until you disappeared from view, as the ground fell away. I thought that was the last time I was ever going to see you. That's why I'm scared."

"Shhhh," I tried to calm her, as she grew upset. "That was a mistake on my part. One I regret. But it's done, we did find each other again."

"That isn't what I mean," Haurn sighed, let out a long breath. "I'm scared I'm going to lose you. Until now, we've been lucky, but how long do you figure that luck is gonna hold out? This Empire, it's taken everything from me, my father, my friends, my people. Frag it, even if we do survive, I'm scared you'll get addicted to the combat, or some fanatical devotion will compel you to remain here. The same kind that held you back at the outpost when you had the chance to leave. That same force that fuels your hatred of the enemy and your love of the Empire. I've lost so much; I can't lose you too. I love you."

I took Haurn, sat her down on a what had been a bench, carved from the wall of the trench. I let her rest her head on my chest, held her, ran my fingers through her hair –she had cropped most of it off to combat the mites. The night was so cold, we pressed together to share our warmth, the only way to endure.

"I'm not going to lose you," I asserted, the fire of conviction burned within, determined to make it through for Haurn. "And nothing is going to happen to me. We'll make it through this…I promise."

"You can't make a girl that kind of promise," Haurn joked and briefly wore a smile, then retreated to sorrow. "My people wouldn't want me to have these feelings, especially over an aruetii. I thought it was a death sentence when I was conscripted. I was sent off to fight for something I didn't believe in, meet a death not considered honorable. Honorable by my people's standards. I felt like I was on the precipice, prepared to be meaninglessly hurled into eternity. Then, I met you. You put out a hand and drew me back. I can't think of a future that doesn't involve you. I want there to be more to us than this…"

The conversation with Haurn brought me to the most important intersection I would face. The choice I had before would forever alter my life. To achieve one dream necessitated I sacrifice the other. I love the Empire; I believe in its purpose and the opportunities provided. Sure, it has its problems, and I have suffered countless degradations in my fulfilment of the Imperial oath I swore. But without the Empire I would still be stranded on Euruta, scratching out an impoverished living while the Republic kept its back turned.

The other choice was Haurn. She had her reasons to hate the Empire. Can I truly justify Imperial actions against the Mandalorians? No, I cannot. I am all alone in this Galaxy, been on my own since I was six. My father is dead, no idea where the slavers sold my mother or even if she is even alive at this point. My older siblings drifted off without means to contact them, I have no family left. Sonya Haurn is the only person I care about. I confess I have strong feelings for her, I love her, and I would want a future with her. The fact I am an outsider, a foreigner to the Mandalorians, does not matter and she has made that clear. I have long wondered why me? I could never understand what she saw in me, what drove her to reject every other Mandalorian. Now I am certain I know.

The dawn will rise in only a few hours. Regardless of my choice, at this moment, there is still fate to be decided. We are going to be engaged in heavy combat, in an operation that will not cease until victory is achieved. There will be no rest, for the sappers have one of the most dangerous roles to fulfil. The only way it can end for us, it will end, is if we kill the enemy before they kill us.

000